I have written a book on my childhood in Evansville, IN, during WWII to which my Dad and his brother had gone as Marines, and my mother’s brother in the Army Air Force. I was raised in a neighborhood such as these described above, playing baseball in the trucking company lot on week ends with a stick and lump of coal and later real bats, balls and gloves; playing hopscotch and kick the can; roller skating with skate keys hung around our neck on a string on the grocery store front sidewalk a wonderfully smooth patch of cement; telling ghost stories in the back yard with a flashlight under a tent made from a sheet, so scared you couldn’t close your eyes after you went up to your room. I am now in the care of Hospice, and a dear friend from those halcyon days is coming to visit. We were next door neighbors and went to school together and told each other secrets I would not reveal to this day under pain of torture. God bless those days and my ability to remember them so fondly.
